


write our name upon the wing

by anticyclonerollingstone



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Fatalism, Guilt, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, tagging these things but none of them are especially serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 17:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12487244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclonerollingstone/pseuds/anticyclonerollingstone
Summary: Collins is still at Farrier’s side, following him through the night without a question, only his footfalls and the pressure of his concerned eyes to secure his presence.





	write our name upon the wing

**Author's Note:**

> this was just an expansion of a tiny part of a much bigger thing that i don't know if i'll ever actually post. i've had this sitting around for weeks and i'm sick of looking at it so i guess that means it's as done as it's gonna get. 
> 
> if i missed any typos or if the tenses are messy just let me know.
> 
> title is from the spitfire song.

     The nights are always the hardest. Farrier can’t begin to count the nights that have left him staring hard into the darkness with every muscle wound tight, wanting to run as hard and as far as he can away from the airfield, away from the war. The ringing in his ears is deafening, reverberating through his sinuses and throbbing in his skull. He knows that the longer he waits for the world to collapse or for the dread to fade - whichever comes first - the more he’ll start to expect the shuddering of a damaged fuselage to jar him into some forgotten reality. But there are too many nights of it to justify running away from them all, so he never does. 

    He can’t stand to be in the barracks any longer tonight. Not with an air raid siren in his skull and his heart pounding painfully against his ribs, his watch ticking relentlessly into the night. He sits up, blindly and frantically fumbling for his clothes in the dark. His hands shake as he pulls on his jumper and pushes himself into his jacket. 

    Collins stirs awake, his shining eyes trying to locate Farrier in the dim blue light of the barracks. Farrier tugs off his watch and throws it onto his own pillow.

     “Where're you going?” Collins asks, rough and barely audible from his cot. “Farrier?” 

    Farrier doesn’t answer, can’t answer, his jaw set too hard to make any room for words. Collins sits up, reaching for his own clothes and stiffly starting to pull them on. Farrier picks up his boots and pads down the aisle of cots, the sound of his footsteps a desperately accepted reminder that he's still on the ground. 

    The door opens softly and Farrier welcomes the rush of cool air on his face and the sting of dampness in his lungs. He sits down on the stoop and tugs on his boots. The door opens softly behind him again and Collins sits down next to him, slipping on his own boots just as Farrier stands up and starts walking, unable to bear another moment of stillness. Collins whispers Farrier’s name and jogs after him, falling into step beside him. He can hear Collins’s heels slipping in his undone boots, can feel him looking worriedly at his face. 

    It’s easier in the air where there are procedures for everything. In the air Farrier knows he’s already at risk of harm just by getting into a plane in the first place. All the terrors of aerial warfare - guns, crashes, fire, worse - are real and can be dealt with, and if they can’t be dealt with then there’s only one fate to be had and it can be accepted without a doubt. There aren’t as many uncertainties in the air. Things make more sense when danger is a tangible entity at his fingertips. Strafing and engine failure are nowhere near as frightening when they can actually find him. It’s the echoes of them on the ground that leave him sweating.  

    On the ground it only translates into anxieties that creep up in the quiet and the dark. Farrier does fine in the air and that’s what counts as far as the RAF should be concerned. Still, if they found him shaking and bracing himself against panic with his feet firmly on the ground he would face examination, maybe discharge, and discharge frightens him as much as any flaming, crashing death, if not more. The thought of returning to civilian life now chills him as much as anything else.

    Collins is the only man he trusts not to whisper about it to the entire air force, though he knows they all feel the same. But regardless, whisperings would land him in some tiny foreboding office with one of those understanding old men who saw the last war, sliding discharge papers across the desk.

    Collins is still at Farrier’s side, following him through the night without a question, only his footfalls and the pressure of his concerned eyes to secure his presence. Their footsteps sound together, feathery thumps on the grass, every step a welcome disruption to the screaming pitch in Farrier’s ears. His heart is still pounding as hard as it was when he pulled himself out of bed. 

    Reaching the edge of the airfield, Farrier halts and shoves his hands into his pockets, lets his shoulders deflate. He digs his heels into the ground like he does before a flight when he pauses to appreciate the security of an earth he might not feel again below his feet. He locks his shaking knees under him and lets out a slow sigh. 

    Collins takes in a breath beside him, about to say something but keeping silent. Farrier finally looks over at him. His blond hair is out of place from his pillow and glowing in the moonlight, his eyes soft and still glittering with sleep, forehead creased with concern. 

    Farrier turns away, frustrated at having his distress observed, guilty at having woken Collins and pulled him out into the cold. He steps away with cautious, shaking steps to collapse against the tin wall of a hangar, sliding down to sit on the dry soil around its perimeter. 

    Collins watches him and chews his lip before sitting down at his side.

    “I’m sorry for waking you,” Farrier finally says, his voice sounding far too loud in the night. He tilts his head back toward the sky. Collins huffs a laugh and tips his head back against the corrugated wall behind them. 

    “Are you alright?” Collins asks, his voice small under the blood in Farrier’s ears. Farrier rolls his lips between his teeth and considers it. His heart is still hammering, though less threatening now and almost a comforting reminder that he's still alive. His heart is beating and he isn’t being shot at, the ground is firm beneath him and not about to give way to some reality he had closed his eyes against. Collins is planted next to him, equally alive and equally safe, warm at his side. 

    “I’m alright.” 

    “Do you want to be alone?” Collins asks. Farrier grinds his teeth, blinking at the heat in his eyes. 

    “No,” Farrier says. Collins opens his mouth to say something else but swallows his words down again. Collins’s ears ring too, Farrier knows, and Collins finds himself kept awake at night by the sound of his own imaginary strafing. Farrier has spent enough nights whispering with him from his own bunk to drown out the ringing and distract Collins from the artillery in his head. There isn’t much to be said between them.

    Collins reaches to brush his fingers against Farrier’s knuckles, testing. Collins also knows how hard it can be to be touched, how it can be just as bad as being left to hug one’s own shoulders in the dark until the panic finally subsides. Farrier flutters his fingers, the most movement he can muster, and feels Collins’s fingers weave firmly through his own and rest their hands together on the solid ground. 

    With his free hand Collins digs out a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He lights it, methodical even with one hand, and holds it over to Farrier who nods his thanks as he takes it. A voice crackles in Farrier's ears about cigarettes and blackout protocol. Another voice whispers something about how he certainly has been smoking more than usual. He blinks them away. 

    Collins sighs and settles his shoulder into Farrier’s, his long legs stretched out in front of him, pyjamas tucked into his hurriedly buckled boots.

    The shaking slowly drains out of Farrier’s hands as the cigarette shrinks, passed between them like a secret. Collins’s grip loosens as Farrier’s hand stills. 

    Farrier turns to Collins, who flicks the butt of the cigarette into the damp grass. He stares straight ahead, unflinching in being observed. Farrier briefly inspects his hair, his nose, his eyelashes fluttering with every tired blink. Save for the nick on his jaw from shaving and the sunburn across his cheeks - though Farrier would be more concerned if the ever-present sunburn had vanished - he is entirely and safely Collins. 

    Farrier looks away and stares over the airfield, his eyes hot, unable to bear looking at Collins’s worn face and the lines over his eyebrows that Farrier has never been able to smooth away. His chest aches with an urge to run again, to pull his hand from Collins’s grasp and let him and his golden hair be. If he can’t guarantee either of their safeties then he can at least tell Collins not to follow him when he goes. 

    Warm at his side, Collins holds him in place. His fingers briefly tighten around Farrier’s hand and Farrier wonders if Collins knows what he was thinking. He usually does. 

    Collins knows, though he shouldn’t have to, that sometimes he makes it worse. 

    Collins had asked him once if he thought it was worth it. If all the days and nights and stolen moments _of this_ would be worth it if - when, Collins had somberly corrected himself - it inevitably ended, either in the war or with it. Farrier, sincere as always, had nodded and said _yes, absolutely._

    _If we’re going to die tomorrow…_

    The war would end, probably, and should they be so lucky to see the other side of it then they would both have find their own ways eventually. The loneliness and the heartache would only be one more thing to get used to, just like the tinnitus and the sleepless nights, just like the occasional hand tremors and worsened smoking habits. It’s too late to save themselves from any of it. They both know it, and Farrier can see it in Collins’s eyes, flickering faintly behind every glance. He can feel it in every brush of their shoulders, every kiss, every playful shove. 

    When they were still testing the waters around one another Farrier had repeated to himself that there was nothing to come of it, burying under fatalist reminders every thrill he got from every playful antagonism and every unnecessary warm gesture. Farrier considered himself equipped to get through whatever end they may find, but a fear had sewn itself into his heart that Collins would be badly shaken by whatever end they would find. Farrier liked Collins too much to haul him into the ache of impermanence and uncertainty. 

    In the end, it had only taken one bad flight to turn them around. 

    The squadron leader, a long forgotten somebody Robinson who had just been assigned with them, had vanished at the first sight of an enemy plane. Collins and Farrier barely made it back to the airfield after taking heavy damage. Collins had leapt out of the cockpit of his ruined plane and into Farrier's arms, cursing and laughing with terrified relief, almost before the tired engines had even stopped sputtering. Robinson had made it back - he had turned tail as soon as they started taking fire - and stood sheepishly aside as the planes were checked over. He was demoted and put behind a desk the next day. 

     Farrier had gotten hold of a half-full bottle of whiskey. It was warm and unimpressive but they drank it anyway, leaned up against a fence on the far side of the airfield, the grass and tarmac stretching a world between them and the war. Farrier had his shoulder and thigh pressed against Collins's and Collins leaned just as heavily against him, taking turns trading the bottle for a cigarette, stifling laughter, deliriously giddy at their survival and still trembling with the terror of what would have been their demise.

       _You're one of the better pilots I've flown with, no matter what anyone might say,_  Farrier had said. His fingers brushed against Collins's knuckles and stilled against them. Collins stared down at their hands, eyes contemplative. 

      _We really shouldn’t_ , Farrier said halfheartedly, filling the silence, watching Collins glance from his face to their hands and back to his mouth. 

       _Hasn't stopped either of us before,_ Collins had said, his eyebrows furrowed but his eyes wide.

     And Collins, never one to hesitate and never afraid of catastrophe, had leaned over and kissed him, just barely, and immediately apologized against his mouth. Farrier only laughed into his apologies, unable to tell him _if I'm going to die tomorrow then there's no way I want to have lived without this._

   His heart had finally relaxed, at rest with the reassurance that Collins was willing to resign himself to the aches of something that was bound to be so temporary. But then again, he had thought, he shouldn’t have expected much else from a man who had so enthusiastically signed up to be shot at, let alone climb into any British aircraft. 

      The next day after breakfast, Farrier would squeeze Collins's hand on the tabletop as he stood up. Collins would tell him later, quietly out of one side of his mouth while smacking the back of his hand against Farrier's chest, that he had never been so grateful for his sunburn to hide his blushing. 

      They had never spoken of the lines they had drawn. If they pretended there was any distance left between them, they could pretend the end wouldn’t be so bad, even if it still would find them. It was trivial in light of everything else, but a consolation nonetheless. 

   They had whispered consolations about it in the dark, fought about it in the golden warmth of the rising sun, came to their conclusions and agreements that everything was fine, and in the end neither of them would rather have it any other way, _if we’re going to die tomorrow._  Still there were moments where Farrier wanted to push Collins away in a last-ditch attempt to spare him some misery, but it was too late, turning back was no longer an option. 

    _It’s going to hurt anyway,_ Collins would say, _no matter how I lose you. Stop worrying what's best for me._

      _Might as well make something of it, then._

    The rustling of Collins’s jacket as he shifts pulls Farrier’s eyes and thoughts back into the present. Farrier squeezes Collins’s hand and Collins hums a questioning note in response. 

    “Do you ever want me to call you by your first name?” Farrier asks. The pads of Collins’s fingers twitch against the back of Farrier’s hand.

    “No,” Collins says, surely as ever, “not unless you want to, that is.” 

    Farrier hums. 

    “Do you want me to call you by yours?” Collins asks. He rests his head on Farrier’s shoulder. Farrier leans his head against Collins’s hair, still looking up at the sky.

    Farrier can’t begin to count what he would give for Collins to call him by his given name, to curse at him with it, let it stutter out on notes of laughter. He wonders how Collins’s dimples would respond to the shape of it on his lips.

    “No.” 

    Farrier feels Collins nod in understanding, stirring up the smell of army soap as his hair brushes against Farrier’s cheek. Collins squeezes Farrier’s hand and settles into his shoulder, and that’s enough to uncoil the springs in Farrier’s chest urging him to run. 

    Collins’s breathing slows and levels into a sleepy rhythm but his warm, dry grip on Farrier’s hand doesn’t relent. The jovially tired voices of men returning from some uneventful late night in a dispersal hut echo among the buildings, as much a marker of time as church bells or passing trains. 

    “Collins,” Farrier says as softly as he can, gently nudging Collins with his elbow. 

    “Hm?" 

    “Let’s get back to bed. We’ll get all stiff like this,” Farrier tries to slip his hand free but Collins's grip tightens. Farrier smiles, turning his head to hide it in Collins’s hair, as if there’s anyone to hide it from. He can still smell the day's sun in Collins's hair even under the tobacco and army soap. “C’mon. Don't make me make it an order.”

    “Oh, you wouldn’t dare,” Collins mumbles, accent heavy with fatigue. 

     "You're right. Not tonight. C'mon now," Farrier frees his hand and hauls himself up. He offers his hand back to Collins, who blinks tiredly and takes it, pulling himself up. 

    "You doing alright now?” Collins asks.

     "Alright enough to sleep, I think," Farrier shrugs. Collins frowns but nods anyway. 

     "That's fair." 

    "Now come on, before someone wakes up and notices," Farrier says, taking a step and waving Collins to his side. Collins joins him and knocks their shoulders together as they start walking. 

    Farrier shoots his jacket sleeve to check his watch and sighs, remembering that he took it off. He looks eastward, toward home, toward where the sun will rise and secure his thoughts in the present again. The sky has yet to start to lighten at the horizon, and he has time yet for sleep to find him.  

    Collins’s shoulder brushes against Farrier’s every few steps. The walk doesn’t take long enough for Farrier’s liking, even with their carefully quiet footsteps and Collins shortening his stride to match Farrier’s stiff gait that always gets worse in the cold. They pause at the door to pull off their boots in silence.

     “It’s like I’m sixteen again, sneaking in and all,” Collins whispers, tugging off his first boot. He stumbles as he steps out of the second one, catching his balance on Farrier’s shoulder while Farrier stifles a laugh.

    “If only. Maybe then you’d finally get to finish growing into your legs,” Farrier says. 

    “Fuck off,” Collins holds back a smile and thumps Farrier on the chest. Farrier feels for a second like it finally reset his racing heart. 

    “See you in the morning,” Farrier whispers under a laugh, gently easing open the door. Collins quickly squeezes Farrier’s wrist before they step inside, boots in hand. 

    Collins pads in closely behind Farrier, their socked feet quiet against the hollow floor. They slide into their bunks, rustling blankets and creaking frames overwhelmed by the sounds of snoring and a train whistle in the distance. Farrier buckles his watch back onto his wrist blindly in the dark but without any trouble, the ticking much less threatening now, and listens patiently for Collins to fall asleep before he finally closes his own eyes. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on twitter @thehubbins or on tumblr @hubbins if you want


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